


scott's especially tactile in the morning

by AnguishofMyLove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Early Mornings, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Morning Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnguishofMyLove/pseuds/AnguishofMyLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s five in the morning and one Scott McCall has just been woken up all bright and early because of a fire truck at least two streets over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scott's especially tactile in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> don’t really know where it came from but i had a sudden image of a guy naked with a sheet precariously draped below his hips and i felt it was a good time as any to attempt nsfw
> 
> except i just ended up making touchy feely schmoop???
> 
> so now you have early morning kind-of cuddling

The thing with having been human for sixteen years of your life is that you don’t really get used to being something  _else_  fully. Scott figures that some people are better than others, and even for people like him, he needs more than a little time acclimating to being supernatural. Eight years, though, is probably more than a little time but even then. There are still some days better than others, and at least those unique instances happen almost never these times.

Unfortunately, said instances decided that today would be a good day to show up. It’s five in the morning and one Scott McCall has just been woken up all  ~~bright~~  and early because of a fire truck at least two streets over. He rolls over from his side and scrubs a palm over the side of his face. It’s too early for anything, much less having  _actual conscious thought_ and he laments that he couldn’t have been woken up at least an hour later, six AM is infinite times better than five AM. He doesn’t think he can sleep again, at least not for a handful of minutes, perhaps half an hour, because right now he’s too drowsily annoyed and blearily alert—if that’s even a thing—too achieve much more than pretending he can sleep if he just closed his eyes long enough.

He rolls again, this time to the other side, and feels the tension leave his body. He feels warmth rush down to the tips of his toes. He doesn’t know his hand’s moving to Stile’s face until his palm is nestled just at the side of Stiles’ cheekbones and his fingers are touching coarse hair strands. Stiles murmurs and turns his head towards Scott’s hand, leaning towards the werewolf heat. Scott chuckles and scoots closer, nosing along Stiles’ temple. His hand moves to the back of Stiles’ head, fingers combing through.

There are scant inches between their bodies and the heat is enough for Stiles to unconsciously seek for more, fists moving to Scott’s chest and clenching and unclenching against the bare skin. Scott wiggles to free his other hand and lays it against Stiles’ right, pressing so that the palm is flat on his chest, and Stiles sniffles and furrows his eyebrows. Scott doesn’t really know why, but he likes the idea that Stiles is just as aware of his heartbeat as Scott is of his, and if that means having the other’s hand laid over where his heart thumps so that even in his sleep, Stiles’ mind is aware of it, then so be it. It’s a quirk that developed much much later into their life, and Stiles was quick to pick up on it, mostly keeping his teasing in silence.

He noses his way down to the side of Stiles’ nose before tilting his head away to look at Stiles. Because of his lycanthropy, he can see Stiles clearly, and it doesn’t hurt that there’s hardly a long time before sunrise. Stiles is just as bare as he, that is, completely, and the sheets are draped loosely by Stiles’ hips and Scott can’t help but trace the line of his hipbone. It isn’t that cold, but Stiles has gotten used to the furnace-heat Scott released in waves and he could see it in the way that Stiles wiggled closer to Scott’s body. Scott hums and winds his arms around Stiles’ waist, crushing the other’s hands between their chests. Stiles snores in his face in retaliation.

He rubs his lips against Stiles’ jaw, bristling a little at the hair running along it and cuddles close.

They stay like that, ignoring Stiles’ tendency to kick at nothing and everything every now and then, moving his hands uselessly between them unconsciously, and Scott drifts on and off sleep with the sound of Stiles’ snores and the sleepy sounds of early morning life his lullaby. It’s by what Scott deduces is two hours later that Scott hazily fights between opening his eyes and shutting them again that he finds himself with his lips pressed against the side of Stiles’ forehead, knowing that this is it, he’s not going to be able to sleep again. Stiles has moved to attempting to unconsciously claw Scott’s body and he knows that the only thing he’s not bleeding against their sheets is  because of werewolf healing, Stiles has  _sharp_  nails. Their legs are tangled to the extent where there’s no hope of getting up without accidents happening and Scott’s left hand has migrated to Stiles’ butt—and Scott has to snort at that, patting at the soft skin.

He turns his head, moving his arms securely around Stiles’ waist again, and sees that their clock confirms a 7:24AM. He rolls over, dragging Stiles on top of him with hardly a grunt, and Stiles hits his collarbone with a soft _thump!_  It’s enough to have Stiles’ eyelids quivering and it’s while Scott is wiggling to get optimal comfort under his fiancé’s weight that Stiles finally manages to open his eyes enough to squint threateningly and Scott barely resists the urge to pet him.

“ _Why are you alive_ ,” he hisses, voice rough and soft, “ _it’s the time of the dead_.”

“No, it’s not,” Scott answers sunnily.

“I’ll  _make_  you dead,” Stiles continues, “how about that.”

“No, you won’t. No one loves you enough like I do to bail you out of jail,” Scott quips, rolling over again just to hear Stiles yelp.

Stiles scrambles and grips on Scott’s hair, yanking on it when he’s safely wedged between the bed and Scott’s body. He knocks his knee against Scott’s as hard as he can and Scott nuzzles his hair.

“You don’t love me at all,” Stiles finally answers, “you don’t wake up the love of your life in the  _middle of the night_.”

Scott wisely doesn’t retort to that and instead says earnestly, “I’ll make you pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries.”

Stiles yelps in happiness and cuddles Scott aggressively, “you are the light of my life.”


End file.
